Over the Love
by Syropeify
Summary: Love is both ever-changing, shifting and fluid, yet remains static, fixed and constant. This is an exploration of Fionna and the complicated relationships she maintains with Marshall Lee, Prince B Gumball and the Flame Prince. Written in a style of ramblings, one-shots and musings connected by a thread of a narrative. Rated M for future Lemons.
1. Author's Note

**EDIT: Author's Note:** I've been struggling with this piece, as I am more inclined to write this story as a series of one-offs rather than a traditional straightforward narrative. I felt unsure as how to proceed, so began to write the first main chapter within a narrative structure and wanted to get this online. However, I don't feel this is the best approach on how I want this story to feel, and trying to follow a narrative is interfering with the flow of my writing. It feels forced, and I've realised this is because this particular story is best told through a series of memories, one-shots and drabbles as opposed to a planned out narrative. So I've rewritten the prologue and first chapter to fit the tenses and the style I want. This means it does not follow a traditional narrative structure that you might prefer, it leaves many things open to interpretation and creates a sense of ambiguity that you may or may not like. For those who enjoyed the style and structure of the first chapter, my apologies for this change in direction. I did not give the story the time to really unfold/work with it like I had wanted to in my excitement of writing and posting. This also means this will much more a series of drabble, one-shots that are loosely linked by a narrative as opposed to carefully structured and developed chapters.

I use British spellings as I currently reside in Australia and grew up in Canada. You will notice that all words that would normally have a z (such as feminized, analyzed etc) are spelt with an s (feminised, analysed etc). This also includes double ls for words such as travelling, ou for words like colour and honour, and re for words like centre and theatre. While Canada uses a mixture of British and American spellings, I have had to retrain my writing to be purely British to suit academic writing requirements for postgraduate study here in Australia.

As reposting chapters unfortunately results in the deletion of chapter-specific reviews, I've included those who have had left reviews on original chapters at the bottom of this note to serve as an acknowledgement and thank you of their support.

**Author's Note (Original) **

I am an FxML shipper (always have a thing for the bad boys), but I think the complexities of the relationships between Fionna, Flame Prince (FP), Marshall Lee (ML) and Prince Gumball (PGB) require exploration and development. Each 'pairing' is unique and offers different things. As someone who feels like love is both ever-changing, shifting and static, fixed and constant, I think the gender-bent version of adventure time allows for an interesting reflection on these ideas, the different ways to love and be loved romantically.

The gender-bent version is also interesting in the way it plays with what appears to be an essential criteria to the contemporary, female hero narrative. In many cases, Finn is presented as too young or has young relationships (Flame Princess, 13 year old Princess Bubblegum), while Fionna's age is a bit more ambiguous and therefore open to more interpretation. She does appear to be older, more developed and more readily available for romance than her male counterpart. Although sexual innuendos are present within Finn's storylines, I found that they are much more apparent in Fionna's. For Finn, they indirectly involve him, either through story telling by others ("Bad little Boy", the Ice King's suggestions at Prince Mulberry) or through the side-plots of Jake and Lady Rainicorn. Fionna; however, is directly impacted by sexual innuendo, i.e the suggestion of sex in "Fionna and Cake" and the sexual teasing in "Bad Little Boy."

While Finn has crushes and relationships, which provide humour but are not necessarily central to the story; Fionna is presented within a constant flux of suitors and men she *should* love (but in Fionna and Cake) decides that it is not yet time for her to explore those ideas (of course, this is ruined by the admiration for Ice King). This notion I think is quite revolutionary regarding the construct of female heroes, where they often become aligned with men instead of standing on their own. Men serve as the end to a female hero narrative, while women are a means to an end or an addition along the way regarding the male.

**My interpretation of the pairings is my own, this does not mean this is the right interpretation or the only way to view these; this is just one of many. **

I see the relationship between PGB and Fionna as an idealised, fairy-tale romance. Filled with charm, whimsy and idealised notions of love, I also see this as young, naïve and uncomplicated. But because of its lack of complication, it becomes complicated as Fionna grows to realise that the fairy-tale is not always what she thought it could be. It is material, shallow, lacking depth as it focuses on rules of courtship and ideological promises. It is innocent and quite fragile, uncorrupted. It is a love that is looked on nostalgically.

I view the relationship between ML and Fionna as sensual, passionate and charged with carnal desires, eroticism and sex. While many claim that ML & Fionna are just friends, there is a seductive and sensuous quality to the construct of their bantering and relationship. I see this as complicated, filled with instinctual lust, obsession and fixation. It is deep, but confusing and insecure as ML plays games and Fionna demands honesty. This is a love that never really ends, but remains deep within the soul. This is a love that seeps into the pores and can become toxic, but whether this intoxication is a good or bad thing remains to be seen.

I view the relationship between Fionna and FP as eternal. While PGB is a romantic fantasy and ML the erotic seducer, I see this love as much more tangible in both the physical and mental realms. This is a love that grows, changes, and endures hardships and complexities. This is everlasting, but lacks the deep lust that dominates MLxF and the innocence of FxPGB. This is a love that sometimes must compete with past memories and longings of those that came before it. This love is the most resilient.

**Music Inspiration:** This story is inspired by a particular set of songs, some of these are found on the 2013 Great Gatsby soundtrack, others are old favourites or new releases. I'm not really big Taylor Swift fan; I only like a couple of songs. However, I struggled to find the right music inspiration for FXPGB as I interpret it but feel that Swift has it down pat.

**General Story:** MAIN: Hearts a Mess (Goyte); Over the Love (Florence and the Machine);

SUB: Rolling the in the Deep,(Adele); Love save the empty, (Erin McCarley), Love Song, (Sarah Bareilles); Crystal, (Stevie Nicks); Space and Time, (the Pierces);

**Pairings**

**FxFP- Main Song**: Hey Now, (London Grammar);

**Sub Songs**: Into the Past, (Nero); Together, (XX); Young & Beautiful; (Lana Del Ray); Possession, (Sarah Mclaughlin

**FxML-Main Song:** Is this Real? (Lisa Hall)

**Sub Songs:** Closer, Into the Void, The Fragile, (NIN); Happy Together, (Filter), Fear, (Sarah McLaughlin); Harder to Breathe, Can't Stop, (Maroon 5), Closer, (Kings of Leon); Madness, (The Muse)

**FxPGB:** Main Song: Love Story, (Taylor Swift)

**Sub Songs**: White Horse, Fifteen, You Belong with Me, (Taylor Swift); Stupid, (Sarah Mclaughlin); If You Could Only See, Casual Affair; (Tonic), Everything You Want,( Vertical Horizon)

**Reviews (from original chapters that were unfortunately deleted with the new reposts)**

.1 6/23/13 . chapter 3

I must say I think you are a amazing writter. The way you took into such a deep complexity the hero/heroine in the first chapter. Plus you use a large assortment of very high quality. But I must say I don't understand why you spell color like colour. And I disagree with which romance would survive. I think MLxF is better because gumball is just always in his own world like a f #Π idiot and she would never be able to touch FP love can survive a lot but there needs to be some ACTION. Plus they would have kids.

TheBunnyAndTheBat 6/23/13 . chapter 3

I like it. I think you really captured their personalities so far.


	2. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything**

**EDIT Note: Rewritten (not much though). Reviews & constructive criticism/feedback welcome, flames not. I write to get it out of my system. **

She wonders why the grass is green. The colour vibrant, colourful, glistening in the sunlight. The way it feels against her skin when she lays down to watch the clouds and the sky. The smell when it fills her nostrils, the stains it leaves against her hands and knees.

She spreads her hands through the long stems, watching as tuffs bunch up between the gaps of her fingers. She had been wondering about a number of things of late. Her purpose, her non-sensical world that delighted her in new ways every day. The same delights that offered a sense of mundane logic into her life. Memories flooding her mind. Confusing, hurtful memories. Screeching contempt and distaste at the back of her mind.

She fixates her azure eyes onto the ground before her, digging her fingernails deep into the ground, the rough dirt catching in her nails. Deep hues of brown and black a striking contrast to the bright colour of the meadow. So different, dirt and grass. And yet both reliant on each other for existence. A strange combination, an odd dependency. She could rip the grass away, leaving just the beauty. But it would soon wilt and die. The bare dirt underneath would be exposed to the harsh light, drying up into dust and blowing away, out of existence. Never one without the other.

A peculiar world she lives in, Fionna. The out-of-the-ordinary seeming so very ordinary indeed.

She has experienced love in forms that frightened her, changed her. Memories that so often try to repress her soul, break her down, more terrifying than monsters hidden in the deep woods and demons. Messy hearts and empty promises clutching her insides, threatening to rip her apart.

The grass breathes life into her being. Awakening her senses and calling to her next adventure, reminding her of her purpose. That she is more than what some thought of her. She is over the love.


	3. Unattainable Perfection

**EDIT: Author's Note: **Rewritten, much shorter. Series of drabble and one-shots linked chronologically by a thread.

**Unattainable Perfection**

Dreams are something that Fionna dismisses easily. Alternate worlds of illogical fallacies, deepest desires and darkest fears in a mix of colours, shapes and lights. She never pays attention to the cryptic messages that litter her dreams. Never bothers to try and decipher the symbolism.

Fionna feels lost in a way that one feels when they take the same route everyday to the same place. She knows every rock, every tree, and every blade of grass. Yet lately the route seems unfamiliar. Nothing has changed, but she increasingly feels the weight of uncertainty concerning the world she inhabits. Sometimes along their journeys she would do a double take, feeling watched, or forgetting that a tree had been there where she thought there was none before. She is starting to feel as though elements of her mixed dreams are creeping into her waking life, changing the world before her. Sometimes she pinches herself to see if she really is awake.

Silence has become a common feature of their daily walks to the kingdom when the dirt halts abruptly to a path of stone and towering walls. Bright pastel colours blinding her vision as she walks into its radiance. Everything aligned, symmetrical. She glances up at the towering castle before her, chiselled excellence. She wondered how long it took to build, the painstaking hours of ensuring everything was precise. She does not make the connection between the perfection of the grounds and that of her adoration. She has not yet realised the destruction that idealised flawlessness can create.

When she sees him, her heart flutters and her cheeks stain red, limbs trembling inside while she forces herself to outwardly remain calm and stoic. All she can see is the blinding perfection of his face, his eyes, his hair. His immaculate gestures and impeccable grooming. His spotless smile. She allows the tenalto of his voice sweep her away, declarations and promises she does not really listen to. In awe of his precise grammar and diction. Rendered speechless by his smooth articulation. He is romance and flowers, refined courtly love and elegant chivalry. He is unattainable perfection. A prince from a fairy tale, the ideal she so desperately thinks she wants, needs.

When he treats her like a friend, she is both honoured and devastated. When he offers her a chance to walk by his side as an equal, and not a lover, she is both grateful and frustrated, longing for something that she cannot have. Wishing for something she cannot give. As she strides beside him, she takes note of her overtly masculine appearance, her choice for function over fashion, her less than feminine gestures.

She is worldly, beyond the constraints of traditional gender. But she does not realise this yet. She can see only that which is laid out in tales of love, serving as her lone guides in her post-apocalyptic world ruled by monarchies. And it tells her that she is not enough just as she is.


	4. Hazed Blossoms

**Hazed Blossoms**

She remembers when he sung to her. Of love and promise, of always staying together. _Never keep them apart._ The sun was warm on her skin while their laughter rung in their air. Now she sits in the meadow, feeling isolated, unsure. She loves the colours in the meadow. The way the light reflects and is absorbed by the abundance of blossoms. As she lies on the grass, the haze of the sun blinds her momentarily, a fog of scent.

She reminds herself again that it was not really him singing to her, was not really him admitting love and affection. She forces herself to remember the devious nature of the Ice Queen. She remembers the gestures, the songs. She struggles sometimes to distinguish between reality and the imaginary. She fantasises about their walks in the garden and beautiful flowers. Secrets she keeps so quiet and secure that they sometimes threatened to burst out. Her feelings of inadequacy when realising that they were only that, inaccessible dreams.

She picks the petals off the flower, childish rhymes echoing in her mind. _He loves me…he loves me not. _

"Fionna." She turns at the sound of her name, rolling perfectly off of his tongue like embroidered silk. As if he practiced saying her name over and over, judged and corrected by embellished mirrors. He is sculpted beauty, a mesmerising silhouette in the rays of light.

In silence he stands, watching her. She is unsure how to react, desperately trying to comprehend the situation she has been unexpectedly presented with.

"I…" He holds out a frayed piece of silk, reflecting the light of the sun. She recognises the texture, the colour. The dress she had worn…He does not need to say more. She understands, and a smile graces her lips when she takes his perfectly manicured outstretched hand, the tattered piece of cloth lost forever in the sea of green and white. She does not realise the significance of the forgotten fabric, for in this moment, she feels she is in a fairy tale, on her way to her own happy ending. She has not begun to understand the difficulties she will face in her attempt to remould her entire being for him. Carving herself up into a new image, a flawed ideal of perfection.

Promises of jewels, of flowers and romance roll off of his eloquent tongue. Assurances of the future, loyalty, security and comfort to ease his perception of a troubled mind. These are more for him than her, but she does not realise this at the time. She listens attentively, gushing in the glow of newfound love, the simple action of holding his hand enough to satiate her longing for companionship. It is perfect, a perfect dream. A perfect setting. A perfect everything.

She does not sense another observing them. She does not recognise the complications that have already begun to seep into the fabric of her life.


	5. Fairy-Tale Romance

**Fairy-Tale Romance**

Everything is a wave of splendour, of grandeur and wonder. She is caught up in the beauty and the novelty. She is in love with the symmetry of the walls, the intricate designs in fabrics draped along windows. She relishes the textures of expensive china, embroidered silks and shimmering satins. Her adventures lay forgotten at the back of her mind, gathering dust as she takes in the new.

She spends portions of her days in the company of the Prince. Learning how to run a kingdom, admiring his leadership and loyalty to his subjects. She is filled with joy as they take daily walks through the courtyards, singing of love and forever. Her heart fluttering at the simple action of holding a hand, her insides melting when he wraps his arm around her shoulder. When they kiss it is simple, innocent. He is a gentleman, hands always in respectable places, never pushing her for more. She pushes down any desire for passion, telling herself that this is what love is, telling herself to be content with what she has.

Bouquets of roses and tulips fill her room, her tree house. Letters of that speak of love; affection and everlasting fill drawers, spilling out onto floors. Gifts of paintings, necklaces, earrings. Elaborate baked goods stuffed in cupboards.

He talks of balls and galas, rules and regulations, the importance of heirs and peace.

When he asks her to be coroneted, to become a real princess so they can marry, she is beyond ecstatic. The excitement overwhelms her, the seriousness of the life change disregarded as fantasies of forever engage her mind. She has not yet realised that she will be expected to put her sword away indefinitely. She has not yet understood the significance of this bequest. All she sees is love and romance, whimsy and fairy tales. He is her handsome prince charming, and she to become his beautiful princess.

She replaces her worn clothes for elegant gowns, her sword for jewels. She takes lessons on dictation; she begins to learns how to play the harp and the correct way to drink tea. Every mistake is corrected as she attempts to become the ideal. She takes it in with enthusiasm, desperate to be perfect.

She ignores the little voice of reason in her head, telling her fairy tales are not real, this is not real. She does not want to be plagued by doubt and uncertainty while she sheds her past. She wants to be reborn into something that will be loved eternally.


	6. Cracks in Porcelain

**Author's Note: **On a bit of a writing binge at the moment, making the most of it!

**Cracks in Porcelain**

A haze of pastels clouds her mind, reaching into her thoughts and spreading them across her eyes. A heavy fog settles against her legs, its hands gripping her feet as she struggles to move. She can see him emerging in the dense mist, beautiful as always. Nothing out of place. He walks closer and something is amiss, not quite right. His skin is too pale, the eyes too dark, a trail of red dripping down from the corner of his mouth. He is in front of her now, fangs bared, he leans over-

She wakes with a start; head slumped down on the table, encircled by towering walls of ancient dusty texts lined with gold and leather. The legs of the table buckling under the immense weight. She has been struggling to memorise facts and figures, dates and events. Preparing herself for her coronation.

Her fingers are raw, bleeding from extensive and unsuccessful learning of the harp. The palms of her hands and the fronts of her knees scraped and bruised from countless falls. The result of her inability to walk effortlessly in long flowing gowns. Her ribs aching from the constricting pressure of corsets. She strains to remember proper etiquette and her articulation is average at best. Everything that comes so naturally to her love is a great endeavour for her. Everything that comes so easily to her now locked away in the recess of her mind.

She has become exhausted, feeling overwhelmed and out of her depth while she toils endlessly to achieve the thing she really desires. She fears that she is disappointing him. That he will toss her away. So she tries harder. She tells herself that this is what it takes; this is what she must become. All princesses are transformed, become something more. She reminds herself that one day these things will be simple for her. She will be fluent in the royal ways. That all heroines in her fairy-tales mastered these arts in the end. But she has neglected the beginning of these stories that she devotes her desires to. She has forgotten the most important aspect. She only sees the end.

"All work and no play makes Fionna a good little girl indeed…." Over her shoulder, he peers at the mound of books. She does not need to turn around to know it is him, the alluring quality of his voice enveloping her, drowning her with its liquid sensuality. "Such a travestry, such nonsense all of this….such….useless information..." His long fingers grip her shoulder, spinning her around to face him. "Nothing to say Fionna? Have you realised yet that your fairy-tale is just that? An impossible story?" The intensity of his gaze is immobilising.

"I can see the cracks in your perfect, porcelain dream Fionna….I can see them spreading across the surface of your being…" When he leans in to grab her chin, she recoils back for a moment, but that only entices him more. "Your immaculate little world, I can see it crumbling, imploding, falling at your feet." His mouth lightly brushes hers. "I can taste it, your desperation. Good little girl, this is a tragedy, not a romance…"

He grazes his lips along her neck, the velvet of his tongue lightly tracing against her skin. He whispers devilish delights in her ear, her knees buckling as she grasps the table to keep support. Words that send chills down her spine, pooling between her legs and sparking a heat she had not even known existed. When he grabs her face again and stares into her eyes, she knows they are promises. When he leaves her, her head is spinning, white knuckled and breathless. She wonders whether she will be strong enough to stop them. Whether she will even try.


	7. Ever-After Endings

**Ever-After Endings**

She wanders down the long, gilded hallways, the tips of her calloused fingertips tracing the carved walls. She is alone in a crowd of bustling and frantic activity. Quiet and peace is longed after, but not found within the confines of the palace. Everyone is busy, cleaning tapestries and washing floors. White noise filling the large space. The hurried clinks of shoes along the marble ground.

_He_ is in her mind, plaguing her thoughts. The feel of his lips on her skin, the sound of his voice in her ear. She struggles to break free from the building desire that he has sparked, that she desperately tries to extinguish. She pushes it to the back of her mind, already overflowing with wants and needs to adventure, to explore. Already towering with abandoned skills of fighting and climbing, agility and innovation. She has replaced her agility for flawless posture, her sword-fighting for needle and thread work, her cleverness for articulation diction. But they sit there, gathering dust, bulging at the seams of her brain, throbbing for liberation. And so she meanders aimlessly through the bright foyers of the kingdom. Reminding herself time and again that this is what she wants.

When she sees him directing servants and addressing citizens, showing love and duty, her heart skips a beat. He is as immaculate as always, flawless in his movements, his speech. He presents her with flowers, showers her with carefully chosen words praising beauty and elegance. Crafted and perfected. He offers his arm and she takes it gladly, the velvet of his shirt brushing against her skin reminding her of something else, of someone else.

As they walk in the gardens; a ritual for them now, she batts away the little nagging voice inside her head, the one that tells her they are only that. Fashioned phrases that belong in a story, actions that follow a narrative. She pushes aside the slight discomfort she has begun to feel, the doubt about her choices. The feeling of mundane familiarity that has begun to percolate the newly constructed edifice of her life, snaking into the cracks of her judiciously structured walls. She shakes off the feeling that there is more than the whimsies and ardour that it is her love life.

This is after all, her happily ever after. Her fairy tale ending.


	8. Unravelling Threads

**Unravelling Threads  
**

The night breeze is cool, frolicking with pieces of her golden strands, toying with the cap wrapped around her face and hair. The ends of her scarf dancing with the wind. The ombre sky overhead is clear, brimming with tiny spheres of light. Sometimes she feels as though she is on top of the world when she sits here, gazing at the land below. She wonders her purpose, her intent. She feels lonely, secluded in the realm where there are no others like her. Sometimes this makes her feel special, but tonight it serves of a reminder of her isolation.

She is unsure if she is ready to let this place go. She is uncertain as to whether the next chapter of her life should begin. Her legs ache to run across the meadows, her hands itching to swing a sword. Days have passed, adventures left forgotten. She is conflicted with her wants, her needs. A love story she craved so intimately now sits in her hands, read over and over now out of obligation rather than passion. She plays with the frayed ends of her scarf, pulling on single threads, watching as the intricate weaved pattern loosens and tightens.

"One good tug on that thread and it'll all unravel…unravel like your perfect little story." She stiffens when he hovers next to her, his breath in her ear. She feels his hand snake across the front of her chest, grabbing her scarf and pulling the thread until the fabric yields and begins to unwind. She watches, mesmorised by the way the cloth separates, gaps forming in once tightly knitted spaces. "Funny thing, fabric…if you look closely at those holes, they were always there…" She does not need him to elaborate on the meaning of his phrase. She pulls the scarf away from his hand, trying to tighten the loose strings, threading them back together in knots to prevent further undoing. She frowns at the messiness, the disjointed patterns and gaping holes. She should have left it alone.

"I can get another one." He laughs, floating in front of her, hands held casually behind his head.

"I suppose…Be very easy to get another one now that you are courting with Prince Gumwad…" He smirks and glances her way. "You'll have to, can't be seen with royalty with that…" She lowers her eyebrows, concentrating on the dismantled cloth. "Shouldn't be an issue. After all, it's very easy to fix old problems by buying new things. Something that should now come easily to you since your betrothal…" A faint streak of red splashes across her face as she stands in her anger.

"It isn't like that."

"What's it like then..." He leans in, wrapping his arms around her body and pushing her against him, his face inches from her own. "Is it like this…?" He kisses her, gripping the back of her head with his hand. She is hot, burning with the sudden intensity of his lust, the taste of metal her in mouth. She is floating, hovering above the tree house as he strokes her tongue with his own. She is lost in the passion, her hips pressed tightly against his. Her hands grip his shirt tightly, one of his own sneaking up and caressing her chilled skin beneath her clothes. The other grips her behind, pushing her against him, grinding softly as he manipulates her mouth with his own. When she yields completely, melting against his body, he pulls back, leaving her gasping for air, heart racing.

He grabs her face, holding her gaze with his, the tips of his fangs dripping with red. "Good little girl, I will make you unravel just like your precious little scarf…"

He bites her lips softly and lets her go, smirking as he disappears in the dark night. She lands with a heavy thud on the roof, bruising her thighs and back, her lips aching. She glances down to see all the knots undone, her scarf becoming an inconsolable tangled mess of wool. Her perfect little world, disintegrating into a disarray of string and knots.


	9. Masked Delights

**Author's Note: Some lemon! **

**Masked Delights**

Swirls of colour dance along the glistening floors. The music of laughter and shrieks of pleasure fill the decadent room. Thousands of candles illuminate the chamber, shadows weaving in between the pillars and across the ornate walls. The space is alive with beauty and magic, a hint of hedonism and indulgence hiding between the dark places.

The dress is heavy on her frame, pulling down at her shoulders while she endeavours to keep her spine straight. She is uncomfortable, a fake smile plastered onto her face, her cheeks straining with the effort. The dress feels tight around her body, her feet and calves aching from the heels. Her usually wild hair piled into a tame crown of curls. She sips delicately at her champagne glass, resisting the urge to down the toxic spirit. She is in a great state of unease, unsure of the formalities, confused by the strange mix of social courtesies and the diverging debauchery as the night wears on.

Her prince is in his element, the star of the show. He dances gaily amongst the crowd, delights them with his elocution. When he grabs her hand and invites her to sway with him, she drowns her drink and hesitantly joins him, desperately summoning the knowledge she had learned with her dancing lessons. He is effortless, perfect frame, perfect posture, perfect timing as he twirls her. She struggles, unable to see clearly through her mask, stepping on his feet, unwilling to let him lead. He keeps a smile on his face, reassuring. This is something she will one day learn.

In the flash of a moment she is in the arms of another, his hands gripping her tightly, spinning her in a way that differs from the Prince. As though the music was born within his soul, as though dancing is the essence of his life. She breathes in his scent and recognises him, her heart fluttering with his nearness, the pressure of his body against hers. She realises that they are hovering just ever so slightly. "To protect my feet…" he whispers against her cheek.

An eternity passes as they dance, surrounded by a sea of masked beings. She closes her eyes for a moment, just a moment to steady herself, to push herself away from him. When she opens her eyes, they are somewhere else, hidden behind luxurious drapes. The light is dim, a soft glow illuminating their features. The feeling of soft velvet against the exposed skin of her back, the force of the hard wall behind her. His fingers reach up to grip her chin and removes her mask. She watches, almost helplessly as he tosses it onto the marble floor. He presses against her body, snaking his hand up beneath her gown, clutching her leg and wrapping it around his waist. "The other one…" he whispers against her lips. She complies, spellbound as she entraps him, the sensation of just a thin cloth and the pressure of his starch jeans against her beginning to ensnare her senses.

"Good little girl…" He breaths, one hand sliding up the length of her body to grab her arm, holding it above her head in surrender. The thumb of his other hand softly brushing her inner thigh. He kisses her, softly biting her lip, coaxing her tongue with his own. She feels him begin to slowly grind against her, his thumb drawing circles along the edge of her thigh and pelvis. She whimpers against his mouth, liquid heat pooling between her legs. He trails his tongue along her neck, up to her ear, pinning her against the wall as he increases the pressure. "You're going to lose yourself to me…and I'm barely even touching you…." The rhythm changes, a little faster. "I'm going to have you Fionna…I'm going to have you with my hand…" The circles brush even closer, just slightly sneaking past the cloth, sending sparks up her spine. He brings her hand down from above her head and sucks on the tip of her fingers, his eyes staring into hers, enthralling her. "I'm going to ravish you with my mouth…." She watches as he snakes his tongue across the tip, a taste of things to come.

He presses against her, slides his thumb into the side of her panties, just a centimetre away from touching her where she desperately wants it the most. He pins her arm back above her head, nibbling on her ear. "And I'm going to envelope you with my body….I'm going to make you fall apart…" He increases the pressure, teasing her, brushing her lips with his own. She can feel her own building, the heat rising, her heart racing.

"M-Marshall I…" He kisses her, deep, passionate.

"Fall apart for me Fionna…" His thumb brushes her bud as he captures her lips with his, sending her spiralling into her climax, her legs squeezing him against her, her nails digging into his shoulder. When she is limp in his arms, he lets her go, forcing her to find her balance. "You know where to find me…" He disappears, leaving her dishevelled and panting.

In this moment, she does not realise that she has become hooked on the drug of desire. That she will seek the intoxication he brings. In this moment, she does not realise that the carefully stitched fabric that is her life, her fairy-tale is now in shambles, frayed and unravelling into a tangled mess at her feet.


	10. Broken Mirrors

**Broken Mirrors**

The smooth, silvery surface taunts her, beckons her with its promises of perfection and vanity. Reflecting ideals and images that she does not recognise, cannot reconcile.

She stares at vision before her, uncertain about the likeness of herself in the mirror. The rib-crushing corset squeezing her body into the highly sought hourglass, layers of fabric spilling out from her hips and sweeping across the floor. An embroidered sash draped across her frame.

The mirror entices her to indulge in the fantasy it holds. But the longer she looks, the more distorted the image appears. She steps forward, tracing her fingers down the metal glass. Mirrors tell the truth, sometimes. But she knows that the shape of the mirror can distort reality, make those who view it see things that are not really there. This mirror is perfect, like everything else in this kingdom, this palace. She knows that the ugly verity she sees before her is not the result of a distortion, but of herself.

She cannot see her beauty, her own perfection, carefully crafted and constructed. She is to be coroneted today, preparing her for a life of royal servitude and diplomacy. But all she can see is the intensity of his gaze on her; all she can feel is the ghost of his touch along her body.

She grabs a brush sitting idly on a side table, tracing her fingers along the ornate designs etched into the handle. When she looks up, she can see him, wrapping his fingers around her shoulder, whispering sinful delights in her ear.

She feels the venom of her actions seep into her veins, poisoning her blood. The overwhelming hatred that concretes her body, presented before her within the derisive reflection of her image. Fingers clenched, she throws the brush, watching the glass shatter, spreading from the focal point out. Just as she has shattered within.

She is the epitome of betrayal, and the broken mirror can see this.


	11. Derelict Dreams

**Derelict Dreams**

He is distraught; his perfect face pulled into the expression of despair. She can see his heart breaking, his world crumbling. She did not realise the extent of the damage she had done, did not fully comprehend how this would truly affect him. Lost in her own insecurities and inabilities to reconcile her wants and needs, her fantasy romance fragmented into pieces on the ground.

The day she was supposed to be coroneted, she had run from the palace. Tearing the dress off of her body, pulling the curls out from her hair. She had disregarded modesty in her attempt to shed everything, to try and absolve her sins. She spent days hiding, screaming, trying to piece back together the fairy-tale she had spent so long trying to construct. But it had all unravelled, shattered at her feet.

In the aftermath of her destruction, the tree house littered with damaged furniture, torn fabrics draped carelessly across fallen chairs, she felt strangely peaceful. As though the devastation of her carefully constructed world, leaving her with nothing had in fact, liberated her.

So when she travels back to the kingdom, to face the repercussions of her actions, she does not think about how this would affect her perfect beloved. She assumes in her emotional cataclysm that he does not really love her, only loves what she could become. She does not stop to reflect on the desolation she is about to cause him.

"I can't do this…" She places her ring in his hand, taking note of how two of his fingernails seemed to have been bitten off. The flawlessness of his being marred by this little detail. She watches him struggle to maintain his composure, his perfection. Questions form on his lips but no sound is heard. He is unable to say anything but stare at the desolate ring sitting in his hand, his own world falling apart, crumbling at her feet. Something she had never considered, that in the process of her own heart breaking, she had in fact, broken his.

Later, in the increasingly comfort of the night, she ponders over the old fairy tales she had desperately coveted, trying to find where she went wrong. She begins to realise the significance of her failure, the desperation that left her with nothing but derelict dreams hinged on a problematic fantasy that she has yet to really understand.

She does not realise that she has already begun to slip into a new reverie tainted with lust and longing. She has not yet understood the obsession and fixation that is awaiting for her in the glistening fangs and dark, black eyes of another.


	12. Lascivious Paradise

**Author's Note:** I want to thank everyone who have left such lovely reviews on this piece. I spend my days within the ambiguity of the academic abyss, writing and rewriting academic articles/thesis chapters, marking undergraduate papers and generally feeling like I haven't got a clue most times regarding what I'm doing. A normal feeling for the PhD candidate I have been told. It is such a wonderful feeling to receive such heart-warming and encouraging reviews on something that I write freely, something that just flows from the tips of my fingers as opposed to carefully constructed arguments and explanations. I don't expect reviews, so when I receive them, I really do appreciate them. My apologies for the often short chapters and the delays between postings, I write this when the mood strikes, when I am not feeling hampered down by the demands of the lowly graduate student.

**Lascivious Paradise **

The sensation of the cool silk against her bare skin is a delicious feeling. Soft and buttery as it wraps itself around the limbs of her naked body, flowing between the crevasse of her thighs and arms and pooling out beneath her. The room is sheathed in the soft orange glow of candlelight, the air thick with incense, wisps of smoke disappearing into the deep shadows looming in the corners.

She is a tangled mess of heat and passion, entrapped in the embrace, unsure of where the silk ends and his long fingers begin. Time has no meaning; she is unsure whether hours or days have passed, lost within the ambiguity and carnality that this place holds, that he offers. He is wrapped around her, his legs holding hers in place, the feeling of his chilled torso cooling the warmth that emanates from her back.

"Good little girl…" He breathes into her ear, sliding his fingers down the length of her body, cupping her intimate area as she arches up into his hand. He nibbles the lobe softly, his other hand snaking around her left thigh to hold her in place. She is weak, breathless as he shifts her body, positioning her so he can slip inside from underneath, stroking the soft folds and grazing the tips of his fingers across her sensitive bud. He thrusts slowly, relishing each inch, making her aware of what he gives her, what he does. She is weak with lustful abandonment, overwhelmed by the sensations. He touches her just so, teasing her into desperation, until she is begging with tears of frustration escaping from her eyes. He knows just how to make her want it so badly that she falls into remission, anything to get a taste of the nirvana only he can give her.

For weeks she has found herself entrapped within the confines of his hunger, an addict constantly seeking her next fix. Each time she seeks him out, she tells herself that this will be the last. That she just needs one more to tie her over, to get her through the detox. But each time, she fails and comes crawling back.

"You've got a thing for me girl…" He mocks, raking his thumb across her clit with just enough pressure to bring her to the edge, hovering on the cliff between desiring frustration and satisfying climax. He thrusts deep inside her, long, tortuously measured movements as he keeps her hanging. "Tell me what it is you want Fionna…" She is speechless, unable to form the words, constricted by her heavy panting and intense need. He pauses his movements, hovering his fingers above her. "Tell me Fionna..." he purrs in her ear. "If you want me to continue….you have to ask Fionna…" He leans down to bite her neck, sucking softly and slowly rotating his hips. Small, minuscule movements that remind her how much she needs this.

"I…." She arches up only to be disappointed that he has moved his hand, still hovering, still waiting.

"Tell me…." He whispers, sliding one finger down across her throbbing bud and thrusts hard. She does, screaming silently as the feeling of his thrusts and hands send her spiralling over the edge into the oblivion of pleasure, barely registering his low growls in her ear and the brush of his flannel shirt against her skin as he plunges towards his own sweet release.

He never takes his clothes off, not fully. Always an open shirt or unzipped jeans. Not the result of shame or insecurity. Rather, the mark of a man who is in complete control. But she is always nude, vulnerable and defenceless against the onslaught of his eroticism. She is intoxicated, craving the pleasure he keeps from her, drugged from gratification he gives her, emaciated from that which he takes from her. She is spellbound by the totality of his lascivious paradise.


End file.
